Читать книгу My Lady's Honor - Julia Justiss - Страница 11

Three weeks later, Gwennor dropped the last load of firewood beside Jacquinita’s wagon and brushed off her hands. With a now-expert eye, she calculated she had another half hour’s daylight to return to the stream, draw water and wash.

She flexed her tired shoulders as she trotted back to the small river near which Remolo had ordered them to make camp this afternoon. Jacquinita had promised the gypsy lord that Gwen and her brother would work, and work they had, Gwen carrying water, foraging for firewood, and assisting with the cooking, while Parry helped the men hunt for game and care for the horses. Though Gwennor had supervised her Southford staff in performing a wide variety of household tasks, she had done little of the physical labor herself. Most evenings, she was so exhausted that she fell asleep the moment she rolled into her blankets in a corner of Jacquinita’s wagon.

During the day-long rides, the soothsayer instructed Gwennor in the reading of palms, the rolling of dice and the playing of the various card games with which the gypsy entourage would entertain—and win money from—the people of the towns who came to their encampment. Around the fire on several evenings she had even, at Jacquinita’s urging and much to the amusement of the rest of Remolo’s family, joined the women in dancing to the plaintive music the men coaxed from their violins.

Her escape from Southford Manor had been almost ridiculously easy. After returning from her interview with Remolo, while Nigel slept, she’d simply walked into the estate office and, without a qualm of conscience, removed from the strongbox a sack containing almost forty golden guineas.

When she explained at dinner that Parry had remained at the barn to tend his animals, her cousin merely shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate that her brother’s behavior proved he was the incompetent Nigel claimed him to be. The new baron also seemed satisfied with her terse assertion that everything was in train for the arrival of Lord Edgerton, and happily monopolized conversation for the rest of the meal, expanding on his plans for the modernization of Southford.

Leaving him to his brandy and cigars, Gwennor had been able to creep out of the manor several hours earlier than expected, to the delight of the waiting Davi, who informed her that Parry had departed with the rest of the family at dusk, as decreed by Remolo.

She’d feared at first that her brother might resist leaving Southford. But though he was sorrowful at abandoning his animals, he seemed to sense without her attempting to explain it that with the coming of their cousin, life as they knew it at Southford could not continue. With the sweet-natured trustfulness she found so endearing, he merely inquired where she wanted him to go, and seemed delighted to learn they’d be traveling with the gypsy band.

After much internal debate, Gwennor had decided against leaving Jenny a note. Though she hated to worry her dear friend, she was more concerned about the consequences should Nigel suspect the maid had abetted her flight. This way, Jenny’s alarm and worry would be too genuine for the new baron to suspect her former nurse had any foreknowledge of her mistress’s plans. As soon as it was safe to do so, she’d vowed, she would write to her.

Reaching the swiftly flowing river, Gwennor quickly performed her ablutions. Shivering against the chill and thinking longingly of the hip bath full of hot fragrant water back at Southford, she filled two buckets upstream to bring back to the encampment. She hoped the stew would be ready when she arrived, for Gwennor was starving, and eager to practice her card tricks for the night ahead.

By now she was quite skilled, and not nearly so nervous as she’d been the first night the gypsies had welcomed curious farmers and townspeople to their camp. She rather enjoyed leaving her curly hair long and free, unencumbered by pins or braids, she thought as she tied it back again with the multicolored scarf. Accustomed to long, straight gowns fitted only at the bosom, at first it had seemed shocking to don the low-cut peasant blouse and long skirt that hugged her waist. But now she was as comfortable in her gypsy clothes as she was with the telling of outrageous fortunes and the deft shell games at which she won farthings from gullible young farmers.

If her time with the gypsies had given her a new appreciation for the comforts of living in the Manor, still she had found appeal in their simpler life, the camaraderie of the band and the esteem with which Parry was treated for his skill.

Only one aspect of the experience made her uneasy, she thought as she hefted the buckets and trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon. Though she’d never tasted passion first-hand, she recognized the hungry look in the eyes of the visitors as they watched the gypsy girls tell fortunes or ply the dice, a look that intensified later when the girls danced. Their steady, openly appraising stares while Gwennor dealt them cards or read their palms had at first shocked her, and often still made her cheeks redden beneath the scarf with which she masked her face.

No matter how hot their glances grew, though, most visitors were wise enough not to try to touch where their eyes lingered. Remolo permitted no carnal transactions with the women of his family, and few wished to risk the wrath of the gypsy men who watched and waited, vicious curving blades tucked casually in waistbands or boot tops. Still, Gwennor could read in the attitude of their male customers the opinion that the gypsy women were merely an exotic variety of lightskirt. Should the society to which Gwennor belonged ever discover she had traveled in a gypsy caravan, worn gypsy dress and read the palms of clerks and farm boys, all Southford’s wealth would not be sufficient to buy her a respectable husband.

Mercifully, the visitors she’d encountered seemed to accept Gwennor as the gypsy girl she appeared, for which she thanked heaven daily, grateful the Lord had created her dark rather than blond. After the first week, when she’d listened night and day for the pounding of approaching hooves, her fear of pursuit or discovery lessened, though she alone of the gypsy women still wore a scarf over her face when strangers came to the encampment.

She trudged back to Jacquinita’s wagon and deposited her twin burdens, mouth watering at the spicy scent emanating from the cooking pot.

The fortune-teller had already spooned her out a large bowl. “Eat quickly, my heart,” the old woman said. “Remolo has ridden into the town. We’ve camped here before, and many will come to have their fortunes told and bet at cards.” She smiled at Gwen. “You must help them leave their money behind when they depart.”

Gwennor laughed and took the bowl offered. “I shall do my best,” she replied.

“I think it’s a terrible idea,” Gilen de Mowbry, Viscount St. Abrams muttered to his brother, frowning at the noisy group of friends preparing to ride out.

Alden de Mowbry grinned at his sibling. “Don’t be a dead bore, Gil. Chase tells me the gypsies camp here every year, and ’tis very amusing to have one’s fortune read, or dice with their pretty wenches. Half the town comes out, as well as nearly all Lord DeLacey’s servants. The masculine contingent, anyway.”

“The females have more sense,” Gilen retorted. “Certainly, visit the gypsy camp—if you wish to have the watch nabbed from your pocket while some dark-eyed charmer tells lies about your future.”

“Come on, Gil!” Alden coaxed. “Remember, you’re bound soon for Harrogate. No amusement to be had in that rubbishing town full of half-pay soldiers and octogenarians. Best find some enjoyment while you can.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Gilen said with a sigh. “Jeffrey nursing a broken heart is devilish grim, and dancing attendance on his sick grandfather will scarcely be more entertaining.”

Alden shuddered. “Sounds appalling! Why go at all? Stay here a while longer. Between billiards and cards, Chase has gone down to you by nearly five hundred pounds. I’m sure our host’s son would welcome the opportunity to win back some of his blunt.”

Gilen chuckled. “Given his level of skill, he’d likely only lose more. And I really must go lend poor Jeff my support. Damn that Battersley chit! I tell you, Alden, there’s nothing so perfidious as a woman! Leading Jeffrey to a declaration, when all the time what she really wanted was to make the Earl of Farleigh’s chinless cub jealous enough to pop the question himself.”

“Abandon old Jeff after he did, eh?”

“As fast as it took to slip Farleigh’s emerald on her deceitful finger.”

“You know Jeffrey, though,” Alden countered, “Ten to one, by the time you arrive he’ll have fallen for someone else. Too easygoing by half, and always fancying himself in love with some chit or other.”

“Who’s he to fall in love with in Harrogate?”

Alden nodded. “Point taken. I suppose you shall have to go cheer him up. Best friend since Eton, and such. Which,” he added, pushing his brother toward the door, “is all the more reason for you to come along with us and enjoy yourself tonight. Mayhap you’ll catch the eye of some fetching gypsy wench.”

“And then catch the edge of her father or brother’s blade? Thank you, no!” he replied, laughing as he gave up his resistance and followed Alden.

Lacey’s Retreat was only a day’s ride from Harrogate, but Gilen had broken his journey here with the ostensible excuse of spending time with his brother before Alden, Chase and their Oxford classmates returned to school. He had, he knew, been putting off the moment when he must confront Jeffrey’s sorrowful face—a sight which would only further inflame his temper against Davinia Battersley in particular and matchmaking females in general.

Thank heaven that, not yet ready himself to become a tenant for life, Gilen confined his attentions to bits of muslin who performed zealously for the high wages he paid them. No fraudulent shows of devotion, no false sighing over his wit, strength, masculinity—just an honest exchange of mutual passion that left each party satisfied. And if the parting was sometimes a bit…tempestuous, he mused, recalling the shrieks and breaking of glass that had accompanied his giving that delectable but fiery-tempered opera singer her congé, such uproar occurred infrequently.

Perhaps the gypsies also provided a straightforward bargain, he thought as he rode his skittish stallion behind the others. After all, if a man wished to throw away his coins listening to a pretty lass spout nonsense, that was his affair. In any event, observing the interplay should prove more amusing than the alternative—challenging himself to a solitary game of billiards while the rest of the party went off to the gypsy camp.

His doubts about the excursion returned after they arrived, however. Chase, Alden and their other friends turned their mounts over to some gypsy youths, who herded them into a brushwork enclosure already containing a number of other horses. His temperamental stallion Raven, however, could not be closeted with other beasts and would have to be kept separately.

While he hesitated, a tall gypsy lad approached. Before Gilen could warn him away, he came to Raven’s head, crooning softly. Instead of snorting, shying or baring his teeth at the intruder as Gilen expected, the stallion grew still, watching the boy, who continued to speak to him in a low, singsong voice. To Gilen’s surprise, Raven nickered and allowed the boy to stroke his velvet muzzle.

“He’ll come with me now, sir,” the boy said.

“You mustn’t put him in with the others,” Gilen advised as he dismounted.

“I won’t,” the lad replied. Then, while Gilen watched in astonishment, instead of leading the stallion by the bridle, the boy merely walked away, still murmuring, Raven following him docilely like a chick after its mother hen.

Shaking his head in wonderment at the spectacle, Gilen wandered into the encampment.

Brightly dressed gypsy girls rolled dice, or shuffled cards, or traced their fingers along the palms of eagerly waiting men. A large bonfire burned in the center of the circle of wagons, and at its edge the gypsy men stood looking on, one of them idly playing on a violin.

Gilen’s attention was drawn to the wagon closest to the bonfire, where a large crowd surrounded a slender figure seated in the wagon, dealing cards to three of the men.

A silky saffron scarf veiled all but the lady’s eyes, and silver bangles glittered at her wrists as she laid out the cards. “Stakes in the pool, gentlemen,” she said in a soft, lilting voice.

Not only was her accent oddly different from the tones of the other gypsies, she was the only lady veiled. Curious, he drew closer.

She looked up at his approach. A flash of something almost like…alarm registered briefly in her eyes before she lowered them back to the cards before her.

He stood frankly inspecting her. Perhaps the tallest girl he’d seen here, she was whipcord slender, just a hint of full breasts outlined beneath a woolen shawl that mostly obscured her narrow waist. She looked up again, as if conscious of his stare, and he realized with a start that her eyes were not brown, but an intriguing shade of violet. It must have been a trick of the firelight, but he would almost swear the pale sliver of cheek revealed above her veil had reddened at his survey.

As she met his gaze, an instantaneous and entirely physical energy surged between them. Her eyes widened, her hands stilled on the cards and for a moment she sat utterly motionless before once again dropping her eyes beneath a thick veil of lashes. Gilen inhaled sharply, his pulse racing, the rest of his anatomy stirring in turn.

No longer regretting his foray to the gypsy camp, with avid interest he watched her play out the hand. Silver loo was the game, he noted, enjoying the quick movements of her long fingers laying down cards and taking up wagers, the intimate gurgle of her laughter as she bantered in low tones with the men. Starlight flashing on her bangled wrist, she brushed off her forehead one errant lock from the wild tangle of black curls that cascaded out of her colorful kerchief and flowed down her back.

Thick hair a man could wrap his hands in while he drew that tempting body closer, crushed those teasingly camouflaged breasts to his chest and brought the saucy lips beneath that veil close enough to kiss, Gilen thought. Burgeoning desire and heightening anticipation broke a sweat out on his brow.

After the hand ended, Gilen pressed forward. “The next play must be mine, enchantress.”

Muttered complaints of “wait yer turn, gov,” and “I were next,” faded as the local youths, recognizing from his voice and attire his status as the Quality, grudgingly gave way.

The gypsy flashed him an annoyed look, then gestured toward the men. “Abandoning me, my lords?”

“Let them go, lovely one,” Gilen said. “Whatever stakes they offered, I will double.”

“Too rich fer me,” one said to her, while the others, after sidelong glances at Gilen, nodded reluctant agreement and drifted off.

The girl exhaled with exasperation, that slight movement lifting the breasts beneath her shawl. Gilen’s fingers itched to remove the woolen wrap so he might view the bare skin of her shoulders and chest, see fully revealed beneath the thin cotton of the low-cut gypsy blouse the shape of those lovely mounds as they rose and fell with each breath.

“If you deprive me of my game and my winnings, milord,” she said, “my master will likely beat me.”

He dragged his attention back to her face—wishing he could snatch away the fine cloth veiling her countenance as well. “Then I must see that your winnings are bountiful,” Gilen replied. “Shall we play piquet?”

“Your lordship has doubtless the superior skill. Better that I roll the dice.”

Gilen pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket and tossed them on the wagon bed. “Name your stakes, my beauty, and I will pay.”

Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the value of the gold and silver rolling across the scarred wood. “You must be drunk, milord.”

“Not yet, my enchantress, but I should like to be—on the honeyed mead of your lips.”

Her brows lifted in surprise at his boldness, the left one winging higher than the right. “My lord, where the honey-pot lies, lurk bees to guard their bounty. Take care you are not stung for your efforts.”

“To die in your arms, lady, would be worth the gravest sting,” he replied, grinning.

“You are bawdy, sir,” she reproved.

Surprised she’d apparently comprehended his Shakespearean allusion, he countered, “Nay, mistress, I do but give homage to your beauty.”

“I would rather you give gold to my purse. Now, do you play or go?”

“Oh, most definitely, I wish to…play.”

She arched again that delicate, high-flying brow. “Some games we do not entertain here, milord. I can offer but cards, or dice.”

The wench was not only lovely, but needle-witted, Gilen concluded with delight. “Could you not also read my fortune?” Smiling, he stripped off his riding glove and extended his hand.

Ah, yes, he wanted her to rest his hand in her smaller one, feel those fingers tracing patterns on his naked palm. And on every other part of his body, he thought as hunger surged, thick and potent through his veins.

She studied him without reply, as if uncertain whether she wished to proceed. Gilen dug another handful of coins from his pocket and dropped them atop the others. “Have all those and more, for the future you would pledge me.”

“I will read what the stars have written in your palm, milord, but pledge you nothing else,” she parried.

“Then we shall agree on that—for now.”

Once again he held out his hand, but at a slight distance, requiring her to move closer to the edge of the wagon if she meant to take his palm—closer to him. Her brows knitting as if she’d figured out his stratagem, she hesitated.

So intently was Gilen watching her, the sudden movement from behind startled him. A tall, powerfully built gypsy with an air of authority strode forward and swept up the coins. “Tell,” he commanded the girl.

She dropped her eyes before the gypsy lord’s glare. After he moved away, she reluctantly took Gilen’s hand.

Shivers of delight ran through him as, with barely perceptible pressure, she traced a fingertip across his palm. “This is your head line, milord—see, it is long and straight. You are a man of much ability, born to do great deeds.”

“My head tells me that you and I together would do great deeds,” he murmured.

Ignoring the comment, she continued, “This is the life line, milord. It, too, is deep and straight. You will live long, have many sons, and watch grandchildren grow to bring you honor.”

“Come with me and share that life,” he suggested, grinning as another exasperated exhalation briefly lifted the silken veil above her lips.

“And this,” she said, jabbing her fingernail into his flesh, “is the heart line. You will know many women—”

“All I desire is you, my princess—”

“Whom you will bewitch and bedevil,” she concluded with asperity. Dropping his palm, she jerked her hand away.

“Can you tell me nothing else, my Delilah?” he asked. “Surely you know more of my future than that.”

Before she could reply, the melancholy cry of several violins filled the night, followed by the jangle of bracelets and a shout of acclamation from the crowd. Beside the fire, the other gypsy women had gathered and begun to dance.

Gilen seized his gypsy girl’s hand. “Dance for me.”

She backed away. “N-nay, sir. Dice I play, or cards. I do not dance.”

He released her, pulled the purse from his pocket and tossed it on the wagon bed. “All this and more will I pledge, if you will but dance for me.”

“S-sir, I cannot—”

Once again, as if conjured from firelight, the gypsy leader appeared behind them. With one quick stride he seized the purse. “Dance,” he commanded the girl.

Her veil trembled as she swallowed hard, but her gypsy lord’s stare did not falter. At last she nodded, and only then did her master walk away.

She jumped down from the wagon and took a step toward the other women. Gilen grabbed her elbow. “Stay,” he said softly. “Dance here—just for me.”

For a long moment he held her gaze. Then, pulling away from him, she began to dance.

Hands above her head, arms arched and gracefully swirling, she dipped and swayed to the wild call of the fiddles, the clamor of the crowd clapping. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and she shrugged it off and kicked it free. Gilen caught his breath as, eyes closed, breasts straining against the cotton of her blouse, hips undulating in sinuous rhythm, she became one with the passionate beat of the music.

He scarcely heard the roars and cheers of the men, the clink of the coins they tossed at the gypsy girls by the fire. His entire being focused on the violet-eyed temptress dancing for him alone.

At last the music ended. The girl finished with a final flourish of outstretched arms, her neck arched and her head back. Without thought or conscious volition, Gilen pulled her pliant body in his arms, brushed the gossamer veil aside and kissed her.

No doubt shock immobilized her for an instant, and then for the briefest moment her clenched fists pushed at his chest. But as he moved his mouth over hers, just nuzzling at first, then adding the gentle entreaty of lips and tongue, her resistance dissolved and she swayed against him, opening to his persistent advance.

Exhilaration flooded him when he captured her tongue and she moaned deep in her throat, her slack fingers clenching at his shoulders and her nipples peaking against his chest. He pulled her closer still, voracious, starving to taste every surface of her tongue and every contour of her mouth, his ears throbbing to the hammer of her heartbeat against his own.

So lost to reality was he, there was no predicting how much further he might have gone had not a sudden jerk at his shoulder loosened his grip on her. Before he could reestablish his hold, strong arms seized him and dragged him away.

“No! Forbidden!” the outraged gypsy lord screamed in his face.

Thrown off balance, Gilen staggered a little before righting himself. The blast of cool air rushing into the void left by the loss of her passionate body and the cold fury of the man before him finally doused his overheated senses, making Gilen realize where he was and what he’d been doing. The girl stood where he’d been forced to release her, one trembling hand holding the veil to her face.

For a moment, Gilen thought the gypsy lord would strike him. However, apparently deciding that attempting to mill down an aristocrat would bring him more trouble than satisfaction, the leader stepped back.

“Go!” he shouted at Gilen, gesturing out of the camp. “All, go!” He motioned again, encompassing this time the entire crowd. “Evening is over.”

At a sweep of his arm, the gypsy women slipped back toward the wagons. A line of grim-faced gypsy men, hands poised over the knives at their waists, advanced to stand beside him.

With a few muttered oaths, the milling group retreated from the fire toward the enclosure that contained their horses. When Gilen turned from the leader to catch one last glimpse of his gypsy enchantress, she was gone.

He looked back at the gypsy lord, who stood with feet planted, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes radiating menace.

Obviously he had overstepped the bounds. Giving the man a deep bow by way of apology, Gilen turned and walked away with the others.

“Well done, brother,” Alden threw at him as Gilen caught up with their group.

“S-sorry if I put a premature end to the night’s activities,” Gilen replied, still rattled by the intensity of the reactions he had just experienced.

“’Twas the close of the evening anyway,” Chase replied. “They always finish it with the wenches dancing. Though I must say, you’re lucky you cut so commanding a figure. Had one of the farm lads touched a woman, I swear that heathen would have knocked him down and carved out his eyeballs.”

“You were right after all, Gil,” Alden said with a grin. “You nearly did end up with a gypsy’s knife in your ribs. Next time, I shall be more careful what I wish for.”

Though he’d gone back with Alden and his friends for a convivial evening of cards—winning yet more from his hapless host, as he took himself up to bed, Gilen still could not shake from his mind the image of the gypsy girl’s veiled face…or the feel of her in his arms, her honeyed lips yielding to his.

With so enchanting a body wedded to so keen a wit, what a mistress she would make! His blood heated anew at the thought. He’d give a king’s ransom indeed to claim her. Perhaps he should return to the gypsy encampment in the morning, make an attempt to discover the correct protocols so he might negotiate an agreement with the gypsy lord. Given the strength of the attraction between them, confirmed beyond doubt in her kiss, he felt sure if her leader approved, his gypsy enchantress would eagerly accept his offer.

Then he recalled something she’d said, something about being beaten by her master if he deprived her of her winnings. Had the gypsy leader been ready to turn the visitors out of camp, or had he thrown them out because of Gilen’s rash action? If the latter, would the loss of revenue that might have been earned during the remainder of the evening be blamed on the girl?

Remorse with an uneasy layer of worry stabbed at him. What if the leader chastised an innocent maid for his transgression? Although he could not imagine ever striking a woman, apparently beating was not an uncommon punishment among the gypsy clan. And if that slender wisp of a girl were punished, it would be his fault.

The very thought of it made him ill.

He sat straight up in bed, but a moment’s reflection was enough for him to realize he could do nothing further tonight. Tomorrow at first light, however, he would ride to the gypsy encampment to offer more gold, and his formal apologies.

Having made that resolve, he still found sleep elusive. What slumber he managed was disturbed alternately by heated dreams of a dark-haired vixen writhing under him and horrific images of her writhing under the lash. He awoke early and unrefreshed, his mind seized by a combination of eagerness and anxiety.

Gilen made short work of shaving and dressing, and after tossing down a mug of ale brought by his astonished valet, headed for the stable. The sleepy-eyed groom who wandered out goggled at him as he saddled Raven.

The stallion was happy enough to set off at a run. Gilen’s spirits rose too, the exhilaration of a gallop heightening his anticipation.

Slowing the stallion as he rounded the last bend, Gilen rode into the clearing where the gypsy lads had corralled the horses and reined in, looking toward the river.

Where a semicircle of wagons had stood last night, a blazing fire at their center, there now remained only a pile of barely smoking embers. Consternation slammed him in the chest.

During the night as he slept, dreaming of a violet-eyed vixen, the gypsy band had departed.